


Underwood

by Hope



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M, PWP, Restraint, Rimming, desk porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-26
Updated: 2010-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-06 17:23:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pornography and paperwork.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Underwood

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to james and rexluscus for beta help. (Also, whoa, I started writing this 5 months ago. O.O)
> 
> Largely inspired by [](http:)A collection of 1920s secretary porn photos, including [this one](http://hope.oscillating.net/images/underwood.jpg).

"Hello," Ianto says, his tone one of discovery rather than greeting. "What happened to the paperwork? Unless that is paperwork. Strictly classified paperwork. So classified that even I don't know about it." He appears sceptical of this possibility.

Jack leans back in his chair a little, observing Ianto where he's propped against the doorway. He'd not heard Ianto even approach his office, despite the door being open; his awareness shrunk down to the bubble of his own space after an interminably long day of work. Outside the room the Hub is dark as well, the others long since gone home, systems shut down to a minimum. The lights of the computer screens paint the Hub's tiled walls a watery, undulating blue, which always makes Jack feel like he's tucked away in the corner of a grotto. The green of his desk lamp seems almost like sea flora, and the TARDIS coral has never looked more at home.

Ianto strolls over from the door, and with his rear parked the edge of Jack's desk, he seems just as comfortable a fixture. At Ianto's raised eyebrow, Jack hands over the photograph he's been examining.

Ianto looks at it, raises his other eyebrow as well. "Not paperwork, then."

Jack grins. "I found it in the desk."

"This desk?" Ianto turns over the photo as if the back will give him more information. It's blank besides the printer's imprint; he quickly flips it over again.

"It wasn't always mine, you know."

"Do you even know who this is?" Ianto sounds mildly surprised.

Jack shakes his head. "Nope. Just porn from the 1920s, I'm afraid. Well, not _just_..."

"And it's not yours."

Jack beams. "It is now."

Ianto looks down at him again and shakes his head—fondly, Jack thinks—and catches sight of the rest of the photos. He gathers them up from Jack's blotter, shuffles through them.

"Secretary kink," Ianto observes. He casts a knowing look in Jack's direction, before returning his attention to the photographs. "It's funny what used to be considered sexy."

It's on the tip of Jack's tongue to comment that sexiness is profoundly _relative_, what with the variable factors of time, place and props; he doesn't even have to think back very far to come up with some suitable examples to share.

But his interest is piqued; he wants to know what _Ianto_ finds amusing—or odd—about it. Of course, there's no guarantee that whatever it is is a genuine reflection of Ianto's kinks—he is in the habit of goading Jack, after all—but Jack will take what he can get.

Jack peers over. Ianto's lingering over the one with the young, suited gentleman examining the Underwood typewriter, secretary perched on the desk alongside it. Her hand is upraised with casual grace, pencil propped between her fingers, while the other hand points downward at a single key. Both of the figures in the photograph are staring down at the typewriter, though her long, smooth legs lounge in the forefront of the photo, skirt rucked up to the tops of her thighs.

It seems kind of obvious to Jack. "Funny?"

"Well," Ianto amends. "Quaint. I suppose."

Jack's mouth twitches in fond amusement. "There are nude ones in there too, you know."

"I know." Ianto looks through the photographs again, the card whispering as he slides each one from the front to the back.

Jack puts his hand on Ianto's thigh. "You should show more ankle," he suggests, rubbing Ianto's leg. Ianto's flesh is warm and solid, and the friction stirs up more heat between the thick, woollen weave of fabric and Jack's palm.

Ianto doesn't glance away from the photographs, but Jack feels the muscle flex under his touch. "Would that help you concentrate more or less, sir?"

Jack laughs softly. He moves his hand up a little higher, sliding it around so his fingers and then his palm splays against Ianto's inner thigh, gliding up until he's rubbing firmly against Ianto's cock. Ianto always dresses to the right. That's why he sits always on the left side of Jack's desk.

Ianto parts his legs a little more, a slight shift of his hips, as if he's getting comfortable, and the fabric of his trousers tightens closer to his groin. Jack curls his fingers slightly and moves his hand without withdrawing his touch, stroking up Ianto's cock then rubbing the backs of his knuckles against the swell of Ianto's balls. Ianto's deliciously warm.

"That's still not paperwork," Ianto says, setting the photos aside. Very observant today, then. Jack plants his feet and pulls his chair closer, wheels rumbling briefly against the floor, and Ianto lets Jack push his knees apart wide enough to position himself between them.

"Can't work," Jack says with finality. "My secretary kink is in the way."

Ianto scoffs and Jack grins; wondering if Ianto had pictured himself the gentleman rather than the secretary in that photograph. Or, knowing Ianto, perhaps neither of those. Perhaps he had just been enjoying the way the straps of her shoes had bound the tops of her feet, as Jack had. Or the way the smooth line of her thigh, visible down to the bottom of her buttock, had made it obvious that she wasn't wearing stockings. Or maybe the parted lips of the gentleman, or the narrow youthfulness of his chest, imposing suit jacket buttoned firmly over it. Or perhaps Ianto just has a thing for pencils and typewriters. Jack wouldn't put it past him.

Ianto's jacket is already unbuttoned, and it falls helpfully open when Ianto leans back enough to plant the heels of his hands on the desk behind him. With his torso curled as it is, his belly pushes the bottom of his waistcoat forward a little, showing a puff of paler shirt between where the waistcoat ends and his trousers begin. Jack wants to push it with his fingertips, feel the yield of Ianto's soft flesh, but Ianto's still ticklish when he's clothed.

Instead Jack undoes Ianto's belt, leather and metal of the buckle warmed by the heat of Ianto's body. Jack drags the tab on his zipper down carefully, keeping the tension taut to make sure every notch resonates. He splays the fabric open, then hooks fingers in the elastic of Ianto's underwear and carefully lifts, pulls it down.

With a little assistance—the skin of Ianto's cock like vellum against Jack's fingers—Ianto's erection sprawls out against the crumpled hem of his shirt, as languorous as the rest of him.

Jack presses a dry kiss to the base of Ianto's cock, breathing in the scent of the hot skin, then looks up. Ianto's wearing a decidedly self-assured expression, mouth quirked in satisfaction and one eyebrow lifted incrementally more than the other.

Ianto's apparent assuredness makes Jack reconsider his options. It doesn't take long, and the fact that the option he chooses extends the length of this distraction from paperwork is not merely coincidental.

Jack dips his gaze, lids dropping half-mast as his face lowers close enough to Ianto's cock that he couldn't focus anyway. "You know," he says, conversational and bedroom-gruff, lips milimetres from Ianto's skin but not touching, pointedly not touching; "One of the things I like most about those photos is that for all their cheeky salaciousness..." He pauses as Ianto's hips twitch at the feel of those syllables hitting the bare skin of his cock. "...There's never really any touching."

Ianto groans faintly— a _typical, you_ groan of aroused irritation, rather than noise of helpless desire—but doesn't try to force it by thrusting up. Though he does squirm a little.

"I like it," Jack reiterates, grinning up at him winningly. "And they're always still a little bit dressed." He lifts the elastic of Ianto's underpants again, then drops it to snap down lightly below the head of Ianto's cock, pinning it to his belly. He meets Ianto's eyes. "Turn around."

Ianto obeys, not _sir-yes-sir_ sharp; still languid enough to let Jack know that while he's willing to go along, he's still not entirely convinced that Jack's plan is the right one. Surely it's not much more than an act by now; Jack's demonstrated enough times that his plan is _always_ the right one. Still, Ianto is nothing but proud, in his own quaint way.

"Elbows on the desk," Jack instructs, and Ianto leans forward, bends at the waist—moving aside the abandoned paperwork in careful, perfunctory stacks—and rests his forearms against the cleared blotter.

Usually Jack's standing when they're in this position, but this is good too; excellent vantage point. He rolls his chair closer and uses his feet against the insides of Ianto's to urge Ianto's legs further apart; the widening spread of them stops his unfastened trousers from falling any further than the tops of his thighs.

With his arse pushing out, Ianto's underpants cling to his buttocks, white cotton a little transparent, showing the enticingly shadowy dip between them. It's lovely enough that it's with a little reluctance that Jack hooks the waistband with his index fingers and drags them down, just far enough for the elastic to rest at the lower curve of Ianto's buttocks, and yes, this is an excellent plan: the only exposed bit of Ianto the firm, sweeping curve of his arse, pale and with a fuzz of dark hair. Jack grins, places a hand on each cheek, and squeezes happily.

Ianto drops his head with a sigh, the slight change in posture jutting his shoulder blades up higher, and Jack gets the hint, splays his fingers over Ianto's buttocks and slides his thumbs between them. He spreads Ianto open, exposing the dusky furl of Ianto's hole to his gaze; he firms his grip as he feels a tightening of tension roll down Ianto's torso.

Jack brushes his thumb over the sensitive skin; his touch drags a little, friction grabbed by the slight dampness of sweat there, and when he leans forward to blow lightly against it, Ianto gasps. The little ring of muscle tightens, and Jack feels a suppressed twitch in Ianto's hips but he's not fooled; Ianto loves being played with as much as Jack loves playing with him.

He strokes his thumbs down and up again, then pulls Ianto's cheeks further apart, splaying Ianto wide before dipping his head, stroking his tongue over Ianto's closed arsehole, repeating the same touch as his thumb but wetter. The taste of Ianto's sweat is bitter, and he dilutes the sharpness with more of his spit, scooping it up with his tongue where it pools behind his bottom teeth, pushing it out between his lips. He kisses it wetly onto Ianto, open-mouthed and lips against skin, his lapping tongue feeling the tiny folds of skin puckering Ianto's hole more than his thumb could. Jack circles his tongue tighter, finding the yielding centre and pushing the tip of his tongue in, flavour intensifying again; Ianto immediately pushes back.

Jack withdraws, wanting to laugh but not wanting Ianto to hear him, satisfying himself instead with a smug smile as he shifts his grip to account for the new, demanding angle of Ianto's hips, keeping Ianto's arse spread open in his hands. He circles Ianto's arsehole lightly with his thumb again, glistening now with Jack's spit and just slightly looser when Jack presses the pad of his thumb right against it, more willing than when Jack had first exposed it.

He huffs out a breath, inadvertently stirring another flinch from Ianto's body, and then lets his hands slide firmly away and down, squeezing Ianto's broad thighs. He presses his grin against Ianto's arse cheek as he massages the taut lines of muscle, and bites into the soft flesh when Ianto tries to shuffle his stance wider, only to find himself restricted by his trousers.

Brilliant, _brilliant_; Jack's cock gives an attention-seeking throb and Jack uses both hands to undo his flies with maximum speed, turning his head to nuzzle between Ianto's buttocks again, parting them with his chin and nose, huffing his hot breath against the sensitive skin and feeling the resulting spasm of muscle against his lips.

Jack's cock is stiff as he grips it, his trousers now parted and pants stretched out of the way just enough to bring it out into the open air, balls still trapped by elastic and fabric. He draws away from Ianto enough to look down at it, shiny pink and eager, and licks his fingers briefly before twisting his grip around the shaft, rubbing the tightening sleeve of his foreskin where it's retreated behind the flared head of his cock. He skims the edge of his thumb under the rim, a curl of pleasure uncoiling through him and faint scrape of his thumbnail ratcheting up his arousal; sweat springs up across his body, prickling against the suddenly stifling cover of clothing.

His mouth is flooding with saliva again, the smell and sight of Ianto right in front of him, pillars of his legs presenting his arse to Jack like an offering. Jack lets go of his cock to instead put his thumb in his mouth, licking away the lingering salt and spreading a coating of spit on it. With his other hand he spreads Ianto's cheeks open again, then rubs his wet thumb against Ianto's arsehole, pressing more insistently this time until it opens around him and the digit sinks inside.

Jack's hips shift restlessly at the sight of it, not to mention the _feel_ of it, rubbing the pad of his thumb against the inside of Ianto's body before he withdraws again. Ianto's hole pouts against the tip of Jack's thumb as it rests just inside the ring of muscle, wet and clinging, then Jack rocks it in again, firmer this time, stretching Ianto's hole wider with broad base of his thumb. He pumps it again, further, heel of his palm wet with spit and sweat, fingers curling against the rucked fabric of Ianto's pants.

Ianto exhales shakily, shoulders hunching up higher as he drops his head down lower. Usually by now he'd be saying something, making demands or just making some kind of enthusiastic noise; Jack twists his hand a little to rub his knuckle against Ianto's prostate but Ianto just tightens convulsively around his thumb, spine whipping from a fluid curve to a tense, rigid line, pushing back; but beyond the increasing volume of his breathing he doesn't make a sound.

Jack wonders if this is the game Ianto is playing; the submissive secretary subject to the debauched whims of his boss. The photographs hadn't exactly played that card; more coy, delighted sufferance than disinterested servitude. But maybe the only reason Jack can't tell what angle Ianto's playing is because he can't see Ianto's face; can't tell if it's sporting a mask of boredom, or determination, or just blind pleasure. He can imagine it, though, willing to bet that Ianto's making the most of his invisibility to not bother keeping his expression impervious. Probably flushed deeply, eyes closed in concentration and lips red with chewing, sweat making his hair curl and cling against his forehead and temples.

Jack pushes his thumb in as far as he can then lets the weight of his hand pull down. With the tip of his tongue he measures the tightness of the muscle, trying to lick inside above his knuckle, slicking more wetness around Ianto's hole at the same time.

Still pumping and licking, confident through the tiny but insistent rocks of Ianto's hips that his attention is held, with his free hand Jack reaches for his desk drawer. He's an expert at rolling it open soundlessly, not to mention locating the lube by touch, and be pumps a generous dollop into his hand.

He bites into Ianto's arse cheek again when the cold gel hits his cock, which throbs at the shock; the lube feels almost icy and the skin stretched tight over the hardness of it feels hyper-sensitive, nerves exposed. Jack perseveres, though, coating his cock while he pumps into Ianto's arse with the same rhythm, pulling his thumb out to rub around the mouth of the loosening hole again before plunging it back inside, interspersing the touch with eager licking, revelling in the clutch of the muscle against the flat of his tongue.

It's enough, more than enough, and Jack could probably keep doing this—eating Ianto out and stroking his own cock—until he came, but he has a _plan_. So instead he lets go of his cock and lets Ianto's arse alone, both his hands going to Ianto's hips instead, willing Ianto to just trust in where Jack guides him and therefore avoid any stumbling through these steps of the dance. Jack pushes his chair forward, forcing his knees further between Ianto's spread legs, and tugs Ianto's hips downward, guiding Ianto's arse into his lap.

Ianto fumbles a little, losing his stability with the change in his centre of gravity as Jack urges him down. The angle of his back changes and he goes to look over his shoulder but before he can, Jack presses a hand to the back of his head, directing it forward.

"Come on," Jack urges, voice rough but not weakened, still firm with command.  Ianto keeps his head down, knees bending as he lets Jack's momentum ease him back onto Jack's lap. "That's it, come on—"

Jack wraps one arm around Ianto's waist, Ianto's shirt crumpled and damp against his forearm, and with his other hand he holds his cock in his fist, guiding it between Ianto's buttocks, rubbing until the tip finds Ianto's arsehole. Ianto's back arches and he pants as he stretches tightly around the head of Jack's cock, the slipperiness of the lube and spit almost pushing Jack _out_ again before Ianto pushes back, welcomes Jack's cock into his body; the head slides in and the ring of Ianto's arsehole clasps under the flared rim of it. Jack groans then at the decadent heat of it, tightens his arm around Ianto's torso and pulls him back harder; Ianto shudders as he slides further down onto Jack's hard cock, his weight finally resting on Jack's thighs.

With his trousers still mostly on Ianto's unable to spread any wider, and his knees clasp Jack's legs together tightly. Between that, and the restriction of his own clothes, Jack's unable to get any leverage to thrust any deeper but this is good, this is fine; he uses his weight and the wheels of the chair to shove forward just that tiny bit further. Both his hands anchor on Ianto's hips while he does it, then stroke down again to Ianto's arse cheeks, thumbs pulling them open again to see the sink of his cock into Ianto's arse. It's gorgeous, Ianto's body clasping so tight that it feels like any more friction would wring the orgasm out of him instantly; the base of his cock and an inch of so of his shaft still visible and shiny with lube, veins upraised and wending paths that draw his eyes back to Ianto. Ianto's arse, the dishevelled tails of his shirt, the taper of his back, his heaving shoulders.

Jack scores the heel of his palm along Ianto's spine, from the small of his back up to the base of his neck, and Ianto arches into it, settling more comfortably even as his arse gives Jack's cock another convulsive squeeze. His forearms are still resting on the desk; he's posed like a sphinx, regal and aloof even as Jack's fucking him. The suit is his hide, luxuriant in pinstripe as Jack pets it.

Jack pushes his hand from fabric to skin, the back of Ianto's neck hot and damp with sweat, then scratches his fingernails up into the fine hair at Ianto's nape, sweat-twisted curls clinging around his fingers as he rubs Ianto's scalp. Ianto groans at _that_, of all things, damn hedonist; he pushes back against Jack's restraining hand and wiggles down in Jack's lap as much as he can. His arse pulses around Jack's cock, a smooth, hot sheath holding him tight. Jack still refuses to thrust—wouldn't even if he could—pleased to hold this conjoinment as still as he can, still as a photograph.

"You know," Ianto says, and Jack wants to roll his eyes a little at Ianto's attempt at a conversational tone, even while he fills his significant pauses with shaky gasps. He's turned his head a little, deliberately against the urging of Jack's grip, and Jack can see his pink, wet lips from this angle, wants to shove his fingers between them. Ianto arches his neck into the pressure of Jack's fingers splayed across his jaw, the gleam of his eyes mostly obscured by his lashes. "The desk's right here." As if Jack didn't _realise_ that, as if Jack doesn't sit in this chair thinking of variations of this scenario every day. "Might as well make a dent in some more of that paperwork. I could help, if I could just sit back…"

Ianto trails off as Jack's grip tightens on the back of his neck, part-restraint and part-massage as Jack's fingers dig into the tense muscle. Ianto's eyes slip closed, as if to concentrate on the feel of Jack's touch as it traces back down the hard line of his spine. Ianto's body radiates heat through the multiple layers of fabric, and the bare skin of his arse feels even more alive after that, _more naked_ Jack would think, even knowing the description is superfluous. He touches as much of it as he can, fingers spread over a buttock while his thumb unerringly finds Ianto's arsehole again, ring hot with the strain of stretching around Jack's cock, sticky with drying lube. Jack licks his thumb again, rubs his spit soothingly around where they're joined.

His cock throbs and he can't help but take a moment to stroke his fingers lightly over the exposed base of his shaft. There's a tiny amount of leverage in the tilting seat of the chair, and though his legs are pinned Jack tenses his buttocks and pushes upward a little, pistoning a bit more of his cock into Ianto's body.

Ianto makes a noise that sounds like a curse and Jack grins in satisfaction—he can see the appeal in what Ianto's suggesting; more depth, and more leverage for Ianto to plant his feet firm on the ground and ride Jack's cock, up and down—but that choked-off reaction alone is enough to convince him that he's on the right track.

Although…

"You're right," Jack drawls, but he only lets Ianto straighten up enough that his torso is at more of an acute angle from the desk, then stops him again with a firm, restraining hand to the centre of his back. "We _could_ be more efficient with company time, here…" Jack reaches for one of the stacks of paperwork that Ianto had set aside with such brazen neatness, his other hand fumbling for a pen.

He smacks the paper flat down on the broad surface of Ianto's back, and tries to concentrate enough on the tiny black print to make sure it's nothing that's getting sent off to UNIT. Or the Queen. That would be awkward, though not unprecedented. Jack scrawls his signature unintelligibly into the empty space above his typed name at the bottom of the page, then sets the sheet of paper aside and reaches for the next one.

Ianto groans again when he realises what Jack is doing, but doesn't shrug Jack off; instead he tenses his back a little, rounds his shoulders and pushes up as if to provide Jack with a sturdier writing surface. Jack can feel Ianto's heartbeat thudding against the steadying hand Jack's flattened against the next document; it matches the thrumming beat of it enclosing his cock.

Pleasure twists in Jack's belly at the unexpected development; not just naughty secretary, then, but happy to be Jack's writing desk, pinned in place by Jack's cock while Jack etches his name repeatedly on his back. He glances down again at the bared pink of Ianto's arse, and where they're connected, the inflamed red of his hole and Jack's thickened cock. Amidst their usual work costume, the limited exposure is gorgeously obscene, the contrast heightened by the paperwork in Jack's hands, the banal minutiae of work creeping in on the edge of his thoughts again.

He drags another signed sheet of paper away, eyes not even able to make the vaguest sense out of the typed characters, and tenses his buttocks to rock up again, stroke his cock inside Ianto as he drags out another signature. It leaves a jerky peak on the paper like an electrocardiogram as Ianto bucks down into the movement; Jack slaps the paper away to uncover the next sheet.

Ianto's panting, though, Jack's signature's going to be unintelligible; he sucks on the end of his pen thoughtfully—and, really, because he can never get enough of having things in his mouth during sex.

"Easy," he says, and struck by inspiration he leaves his free hand splayed on the centre of Ianto's back, holding the paper down, holding _Ianto_ down, and drops his other hand to touch the end of the pen against the edge of Ianto's arsehole. "We'll never get this finished if you don't hold still."

Ianto gives a moan that might be disbelief, might be acquiescence, and he shivers when Jack strokes the smooth metal against his hot, stretched-tight skin. Jack almost wants to force it into Ianto alongside his cock—the desire to do so surging up in his chest with the urge to break the torturous stillness, pound in with more force. He wants to fuck the pen in, and his fingers and his tongue, and whatever else he can find on his desk; wants to stuff Ianto full, stretch him wide open and begging.

"_Jack,_" Ianto pants, and Jack twirls the tip of the bottom of the pen around the ring of his arse, jerking a little himself as he feels the cold, smooth metal against his cock. "Do it, _do it—_"

It jolts Jack out of it, the needy surrender of Ianto's tone pushing the violent urge to rut, to fuck and penetrate, into a desire that tightens higher in Jack's chest. "Easy," he says again, and reaches around to Ianto's front instead, pushing Ianto's draping jacket aside, the pen slick with sweat in his shaking hand. He finds Ianto's cock by touch; just the head still peeking out of Ianto's pants where Jack had trapped it before turning him over. The skin of it burns against Jack's touch, hot and smooth and wet with precome. Ianto's back hunches when Jack presses against it with his fingertips, then Ianto gives a choked cry and tries to hump forward as Jack rolls the cold metal of the pen against the tip.

He can hear the sound of Ianto's fingernails scoring into the blotter, and the harsh panting of Ianto's breath. Ianto's back bends as he attempts to move his hips into Jack's touch and onto Jack's cock without lifting his arms from the desk. Jack feels the warm spread of pride at that; in Ianto, of course, but in himself also, for getting Ianto there. He lets go of the pen—hearing it clatter against the floor—and flattens his hand to push into Ianto's pants, pressing his palm against the hot length of Ianto's straining cock, rubbing his fingertips against the fold of skin at the base. Ianto's shudders, arse clutching at Jack's cock, and he huffs out a helpless cry.

Feeling the urgency of Ianto's arousal through the stiffness under his hand spurs Jack onward, ready to lose control in a different way, now, and catch up with Ianto's surrender. He spits hurriedly onto his fingers again, drool escaping coolly down his chin before he scoops it up, then smears it over his cock and around where Ianto's arsehole is grasping it.

Knowing what's coming, Ianto pushes up from the desk again, arms straightening. Planting his feet firm on the floor to stop the chair from rolling, Jack pushes Ianto's shirt out of the way and puts his hand on Ianto's belly. Ianto's skin is hot and clammy under Jack's palm, and the dual layers of shirt and waistcoat holds Jack close. He slides his hand up to Ianto's chest to steady Ianto as he sits up, sits back.

With his legs held together between Ianto's by his trousers, Jack still doesn't have enough leverage to push up, but sitting back gives Ianto enough closeness and the right angle to sink down further. His spine goes concave and Jack feels his moan vibrate where his arm splints Ianto's breastbone securely, slight friction tugging the hair on Ianto's chest, but mainly the sweat just gluing them together there, as their skin burns up under the layers of clothing. The angle's different, and Ianto squirms around Jack's cock like he doesn't have the strength to lift up off it and impale himself again—or maybe he prefers this, maybe this sort of movement is enough after Jack's insisted on keeping him filled and still—he rocks and grinds his hips back, squeezing and stroking Jack's cock within the viselike grip of his arse.

Jack presses his palm down hard against Ianto's cock, then turns his head to suck and bite at the side of Ianto's neck when Ianto's head falls back against his shoulder. The smell of sweat and arousal rises from Ianto there as well, throat straining against his stiff collar and the knot of his tie. He grips the arms of the chair, and the zipper of his trousers gouges into the back of Jack's hand when he tries to spread his legs wider. Pushing up as hard as he can, Jack slides the hand on Ianto's cock down further, forcing it against the constriction of clothing until his palm holds Ianto's balls firmly against Ianto's body, and his fingertips brush the base of his own cock. Jack presses his fingers there, rubbing hard against Ianto's perineum, and Ianto cries out, his cock throbbing against Jack's forearm and the next second dousing Jack's skin with the first thick spurt of his come.

His arse squeezes convulsively around Jack's cock, pelvis sharp against Jack's hipbones as he grinds back, and then the chair creaks as he jerks forward almost violently. Jack bites at the corded muscles of Ianto's neck and he can't resist, draws his hand out enough to shove Ianto's pants out of the way and grab his cock instead, palming over the head, gathering as much of Ianto's come as he can and using it to slick his fist as he strokes, feeling the stiff flesh throb in his grip, moisture still seeping from the tip when he presses his fingertips to it, rubbing relentlessly.

When Ianto makes a pained sound Jack lets up, gentling his touch but not letting go entirely, squeezing Ianto's softening cock, rolling his palm over Ianto's balls. Ianto's back rests heavy and heaving against Jack's chest, and Jack's cock feels huge, swollen with the intensity of his pleasure, still clenched tight with Ianto's fluttering pulse beating around it.

All Jack needs, really, is a little more _friction_ and he's there. Finally the clothes are too frustrating; he wants to shove Ianto's trousers out of the way, pull Ianto's thighs wider, push Ianto down and drive into him. Tension coils around the base of Jack's spine like a spring that's straining to release, and as if Ianto can feel it, he rouses from his lax, post-orgasmic slump, pulling Jack's hand off him and leaning forward, hissing a little as Jack's cock shifts in him again.

When he reaches for the still-open drawer, fumbling for the bottle of lube, Jack sees where this is going. He grasps Ianto's hips again and urges him up, Ianto's arse relinquishing his cock as Jack helps him to stand, then to spread his legs wide enough to lock his knees straight.

Jack's half-tempted to fill the pause in fucking with more goading conversation—to circle back to his and Ianto's usual push-and-pull—but it's less instinct than habit, here. It's not so much that the physical has overridden the cerebral; Jack's brain feels swollen in his skull, every neuron as gorged on lust as the rest of him. It's more that there's no need to talk, now, no quips that can convey what Jack's hand on Ianto's back can, and Ianto's adroit response is to bend over, folding his arms on the scattered pile of paperwork.

When Jack stands his cock juts out from his body and up, almost aggressively, jerking a little with the throbbing beat of his arousal, surging through him rhythmically. It's flushed a deep red that deepens with a gleam when Jack fists another handful of lube around it. The coldness of it this time is almost soothing, and he rubs the leftover from his fingers onto Ianto's arsehole, loose and hot and fucked-open enough that there's no need for Jack to push his fingers in before his cock. He lines up and thrusts forward smoothly, rocking Ianto's body forward.

Ianto drops his face onto his arms, hips higher than his head now, his shirt and jacket succumbing to gravity and sliding down, exposing his lower back with the shiny satin back of his waistcoat barely covering it, skin flushed with heat and gleaming with sweat. Jack presses the heel of his palm into the lowest dip of Ianto's spine, his other hand gripping Ianto's hip for leverage. He rocks his hips back, pulling out before thrusting back in, sweat creeping between his own buttocks, heat prickling up his inner thighs, but the urge to keep fucking is stronger than that to take his trousers off, especially as unclipping his braces would involve letting go of Ianto.

It doesn't matter anyway, Jack's far gone enough that just a few more sharp, fierce thrusts—hot, still-tight ring of Ianto's arse gliding smoothly around the shaft of his cock—are enough to send him over the edge. Ianto's arms unfold to brace against the desk as Jack pounds against him, Ianto's body the only thing keeping Jack upright as the orgasm floods through him. Heat overflows to every extremity, and Jack is panting helplessly, hips grinding forward as his cock jerks. His come feels hot and thick as honey as it rushes out of him, the tight clasp of Ianto's arse encouraging it. His body half-folds over Ianto's, so as the last pulses of pleasure wring through him he watches Ianto's face, slack with pleasure, mouth open and pressed against the paperwork, ink mingling with his spit.

When Jack withdraws the tension in Ianto's body eases as well; he draws his arms in again, presses his forehead to the desk instead. Jack's still panting, shoulders heaving, and when he slumps back into his chair again, the impact sends it wheeling back several inches along the floor.

Finally Ianto turns around again, eyes half-lidded as he looks down at Jack. His suit is definitely dishevelled, face still flushed and a smear of ink near his mouth, his frame equally hunched and languid as he leans back against the edge of the desk. Jack's amazed he's still on his feet at all.

"Bad influence," Ianto states shortly and breathlessly, hand coming around from where it was braced on the desk behind him to tap Jack's cheek with something—the stack of old photographs. Jack laughs, rolls forward again, takes the photos from Ianto and slips them into his own breast pocket. Then he leans forward a little further and presses a kiss to Ianto's soft cock, still hanging exposed above the pushed-down elastic of his pants.

"You loved it," Jack retorts with certainty, looking up at Ianto's lazily amused expression while reaching both hands behind to clasp Ianto's arse again. It's impossible to leave it alone when Ianto's got his trousers down, and Jack slips his fingers between his buttocks again, the cleft tacky with lube and slick with Jack's own come. He fingers the consistency of it, presses it gently back into Ianto's body, arsehole still open, trembling and clinging around Jack's fingertips. He can't resist playing with it, hasn't been able to since they agreed to fuck bareback.

Ianto runs his fingers through Jack's hair and Jack wonders if he can convince Ianto to let Jack bend him over and fill him up whenever Jack needs to come. A trial period might be the best option. Maybe over the weekend, when demanding that no one else be around won't raise suspicion, considering the any-time-and-place conditions that would no doubt be required.

Jack nuzzles at Ianto's cock again, inhaling the lingering smell of Ianto's come. He curls his tongue out, strokes the tip of it delicately against the tip of Ianto's cock, just peeking pinkly from the cuff of his foreskin. Ianto huffs in amusement, and gently pushes Jack's head away.

Jack takes the hint, stands to claim kisses instead as he helps Ianto ease his trousers up again. Ianto's mouth tastes cool and clean after the rich heat of his groin, but his tongue is wicked. He has Ianto moaning again—always easier to get him in the afterglow, that twenty-something refractory period is something that Jack _adores_—but then Ianto's pushing him away, pressing Jack's shoulders down until Jack's seated again.

When Jack reaches for him, Ianto sidesteps away, adeptly twisting until he's behind Jack's chair, and then Jack grabs the armrests in alarm as the chair is suddenly propelled forward.

"Paperwork," Ianto instructs firmly, breath hot and shivery below Jack's ear.  Then Ianto bites the back of Jack's neck, reaching down over Jack's shoulder to pluck the photos from his pocket while he's distracted. Then he walks out of Jack's office, smirking and closing the door behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> http://angstslashhope.livejournal.com/1610033.html  
> http://hope.dreamwidth.org/1630156.html


End file.
